


Your Silence Breaks My Heart

by Essenity



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Childhood Sexual Abuse, Confessions, Established Relationship, M/M, Past Sexual Abuse, Sexual Content, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2013-11-18
Packaged: 2018-01-01 23:19:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Essenity/pseuds/Essenity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John waits patiently as Sherlock struggles to tell him about his childhood sexual abuse. Written for a SherlockBBC kink meme prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Silence Breaks My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Link to prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/20063.html?thread=122615647#t122615647
> 
> This is a kind of specific scene I have in mind, but I'd be very happy if anyone could fill (or recommend) any part of it, or put it in a fic however you best see fit.
> 
> I'd like to see a scene where Sherlock reveals to John that he was abused sexually as a child (maybe by his father, or someone else close to him). Sherlock has waited until he and John had been together a while before telling him, and tells him overly casually, as if it means nothing - in fact, he is adamant that he is over it, it means nothing, it was barely even a big deal at the time, etc. Above all else, he doesn't want John to think what's wrong with him now is because of what was done to him as a child.
> 
> So then comes the comfort, of course! John might have suspected something like this in Sherlock's past or be totally shocked, but whatever, he is horrified that Sherlock thinks that the way he is is somehow bad, that there's something wrong with him.
> 
> I know this prompt has a high chance of woobify-ing Sherlock, but I want him to be as in character as possible, even if he breaks down with John.
> 
> ...Like I said, very specific, but I'd love to read anything that comes from this, if someone wants to have a go!

* * *

 

1.

  
I feel that prickling sensation on the back of my neck for weeks before I finally accept it isn't my imagination. You stare at me when I'm not looking and when you are bored. As much as I enjoy being the center of attention of the man I love,  _this_  is creepy. Shamefully, my first suspicion is that you are planning something. No, you are  _plotting_. Any normal person would shift their weight and twitch in the uncomfortable silence. I just lick my lips in anticipation. But that makes your eyes slide from me. That makes me anxious because now, I'm unsure whether your plot involves my being an accomplice or my being a victim.  
  
It is a ridiculous notion to entertain. Despite your expressionless declaration of love for me, and my belief of your sincerity, I still fear the day I fall victim once again to your betrayal. Love doesn't make one blind. Oh no, love makes one more tolerant and I am unhealthily tolerant of you.  
  
The first time I acknowledge your staring, we are sitting in your cramped room where you keep the violin. I'm slouched down in an old, brown armchair with frayed cloth on its arms. No doubt a result from your picking. My torso, along with my face is hidden behind the day's newspaper. You have long surrendered the repetition of complaining "it's dull" in favour of drawing melancholy notes. I know you start staring as soon as you cut short a B flat in mid bow. Silence fills the room for a fraction of a minute before my hearing adjusts and picks up the street noise. I am nervous. There is no case and when there is no case... you get bored. When you get bored, I get nervous. Anxious. Hearing you complain "dull" is not what I want to hear because I fear one day, you will do something to make it  _not-dull_.  
  
I clear my throat, shift myself, the newspaper rustles and I speak up, "What is it, Sherlock?" When I get no answer, "you're staring. I can feel it. What do you want to say?" This is first time in months since I first felt the prickling sensations that I verbally acknowledge my suspicions.   
  
There is no answer so I lower the paper just enough so my eyes peek over the edge. You are staring directly into my eyes and a wave of worry spreads from within my chest. Your facial muscles are relaxed unnaturally, like you are trying to look like someone else. You are standing in mid stance - violin still resting under your chin, bow still a centimetre away from the strings. Your arm must be tired. The look in your eyes is intense and I know there's something on your mind that needs to be shared.  
  
"Nothing, it's not important," you say and your arm relaxes just so that the bow falls against the strings.  
  
"Everything you think of is important," I say in encouragement.  
  
"Then, it's irrelevant," you say and drag a note out by pulling in a downwards manner. For a brief moment, I wonder if you are depressed. I may be in love and irrationally tolerant of your antics, but I'm not blind. No amount of love will wrench away my medical instincts.  
  
You are displaying classic signs of depression. But because it's you, my observations are unlikely to be accurate. The only time classic should be associated with you should be classical music. Perfect. I'm either failing as a medical professional, or failing as a boyfriend. I am not prepared to let you slip from my life but I let things slide. Regret is an emotion I'm familiar with.

 

* * *

 

2.  
  
The second time is when you're making me laugh. Your rationality and straightforwardness coupled with reluctance to be courteous about it is turning me into an immature bastard. We are drinking in your living room and in between sips, you are mocking the new detective on her failure to notice the second "dead body" found in the closet in fact still had a pulse. You use a falsetto in your mocking and your face imitates her innocent one.   
  
That is how I know you like her, despite her unfortunate lack of intelligence. I remind him gently, "it's her first day, she's not stupid, she's nervous. To be fair, everyone knows you're a jerk."  
  
You chuckle into your glass and you start staring again. The smile slides off your face and the sparkle in your eyes die. That intense look is back again and I can see your determination. This time I force my shoulders to relax and school my face into an expression of calm. I hope that you take it as a sign that you are safe with me. That I wouldn't hurt you. Purposely anyway. I'm still convinced one day, Moriarty will destroy our relationship. It's not the threat of him trying that sends me into aches, it's the fear that I will fall for his manipulation and hurt you out of my own free will.   
  
Once again, you choose to stay quiet instead and I fight off the dissatisfying feeling of disappointment. You are not known to think of other's emotions before you speak. But now, you sir, think too much about my delicate sensibilities. I like to think I'm compassionate, not overly sensitive. I will not be hurt by what you have to say. In fact, I'd prefer if you told me quicker so I can change.  
  
"She is pretty," you say and the sparkle is suddenly back and the grin appears again. "I'll have to be careful, watch my habits, check my tongue and what not. Don't want you changing your mind."  
  
I snort into the back of my hand. More for show than not. "You seem to have forgotten, Sherlock, that I chased you and I would chase you to the ends of the world."  
  
"No such thing, don't speak nonsense," you say, but I know you get my point.

 

* * *

 

3.  
  
The third time we are halfway down the stairs when you grab my elbow and stop me. I turn to look up at you. You have that same air of determination but a hint of shame, tinted with fear shine in your eyes. A chill runs down my spine and I feel goosebumps.   
  
"This case," you start. Your voice is soft. "Have you prepared yourself?"  
  
"What's to prepare? Like any other."  
  
"This one has a child for a victim," you say, sounding distressed.   
  
"I am aware," I choose my words carefully. "That there might be more."  
  
"Kidnapped for months... No ransom..." You sound as if you're trying to convince yourself of something and I step up to close the distance between us. You are so tense, I can't think of anything to say. So I cup your face in my hands and I feel your trembling. This case is affecting you hard. I wonder if you have already decided on a theory.  
  
I kiss your lips gently. You don't kiss back but you clench at my arms as if to ground yourself. I wonder what you're afraid of. "Hey, don't panic," I say and turn. You slip your hand in mine and trail along behind me.  
  
It isn't that I ignore the warning signs, or that I'm a heartless bastard who'd prefer to watch in silence as you battle with inner turmoil. I just don't know what to do, how to act, what to say or if I should do anything. But things become clear that you are battling something when I see you lean close to the body. You have a different sort of look on your face. You aren't deducing. You aren't thinking. You are just looking. Staring.  
  
Then you start speaking, explaining every little detail you see and then you stop mid-sentence. Everyone looks slightly green from your speech. You don't have to say it out loud for them to see what you're getting at. Instead, you say, "this boy isn't his only victim," then you stand up, straighten your clothes and you walk away from the crime scene. I follow behind you, calling your name. You ignore me, and your strides become wider. Quicker. You round a corner and I start jogging to catch up. I almost bump into you when I turn the corner. You are bent over the bushes on the sidewalk retching. There's a puddle of vomit on the ground already and you are clawing your throat with one hand. I walk over and put my hand on your back, "stay calm," I say while I make circles with my hand.   
  
When you're done coughing the last bits of bile onto the ground, you push me away with a snarl, "don't touch me!", and refuse to look me in the eye.  
  
I say nothing but I wonder if you too, were sexually abused as a child.

 

* * *

 

4.  
  
The fourth time I see that look of determination is around six weeks after the conclusion of that case.   
  
I'm buried inside you. Your face is flushed, and you're panting softly. A moan leaves your lips as you start coming down from your orgasm. I'm not done yet, and this is the part I love the most. Rocking my hips so that my penis rubs continuously on your prostate, your ring of muscle is pulsing around me at a steady pace. I reach down and close my hand around your softening cock. You moan, "I can't, it's too... ugn". I run my thumb over the head and you jerk and hiss. "It's too... I can't," you whimper and suddenly your eyes fly open and lock with mine. You clench down tight around me and hold it. It's your first dry orgasm with me. It's unbearably tight and that pushes me over the edge.  
  
Almost instantly, I wince and steady myself, trying to prevent from bucking down and crushing you. You are still clenched tightly around me and it's starting to hurt. "Sherlock," I whisper and stroke your cheek with my right hand.  
  
You finally relax, and breath a long sigh. My penis slips out and I lean down to kiss you directly on the lips before rolling down to lie beside you. You make no movement for a while and when I've calmed enough to start worrying, I glance over. You have a far away look on your face, like you're remembering.   
  
"Sherlock?" I turn onto my side and rest my hand on his chest. I can feel your heart pounding and for a moment, a spike of fear runs through me. "Are you all right?" I ask tentatively. Your breathing is shallow and I swear, your heartbeat is quickening.   
  
Without warning, you turn towards me and prop yourself up onto your knees. You're looking at me with that same look of determination, but this time, your eyes are wide and if I had just walked into the room, I would have accused you of being high.  
  
"I want to tell you something!" You declare.   
  
"Okay," I say and wait.  
  
"When I was younger," you begin but then you seem to have a shift in thought. "When I was fourteen," and once again, you cut yourself off. Patience is a game I'm familiar with and I'll play it until the hourglass runs dry. You try again, but this time there's a tinge of frustration, "I was studying advanced calculus, there was this teacher," and then once again, you clam up. "I had these private lessons," you try again and suddenly, I see all the fight leave your face and I feel like I've just witnessed the moment when your adrenal gland stopped working. In the following second, the determination melts off your face and you drop eye contact like you're ashamed.  
  
It takes a couple more seconds for it to sink in and I feel like my question from almost two months ago has been answered. "Come here," my voice breaks as I pull you into my arms, fitting you in safely. I want you to snuggle and I want you to feel like I care. I want you to know that I will not harm you. You push your head into the crook of my neck and I hold your head, stroking it with one hand while my other rests on your back, pressing you close. "It's okay," I say.  
  
"Forget it," your voice is muffled and you stay still for a long time. I feel something wet on my neck. If you are crying, I don't say a word. I don't do anything except pull the blanket over us and we fall asleep.

 

* * *

 

5.  
  
After so many attempts of telling me something important, you finally accomplish it on the fifth try. You are eating yoghurt, scraping the last licks off the bottom of the container using the steel teaspoon when you start, "I realise you will feel disgusted with me, or be angry about my lying by omission but I need to tell you this before we get too serious". You say it in the most casual tone that I almost let your words fly through my ears without registering.   
  
I frown but do not say anything as you set the empty yoghurt container onto the table. We both watch as it topples over due to the spoon's weight. I look at you and for a moment you stare intensely back at me. I feel a chill of  _something_  I can't quite name. "Sexual abuse of a child is rather common. Did you know? One out of five males will be sexually abused before they reach the age of 18?"  
  
I swallow a lump in my throat and I identify that feeling. Fear. I am scared I will lose you, not to Moriarty, but to you. I am scared of you leaving me.  
  
You suddenly let out a laugh, "so that means, between you and me, Lestrade and Mycroft," you pause as if in thought before you say, "And Moriarty… one of us was sexually abused as a child." You stand up and break eye contact. "I am the one out of five." You turn and walk off into the next room.  
  
My heart is beating and I feel faint. "Sherlock," I say to an empty room. I was prepared for this. I suspected. I should be taking this better. Perhaps it was the overly casual manner in which you used to tell me, but I'm shaking. The sound of your violin starts and I jerk to my feet and walk to you. I hover at the door and watch you play. Your eyes meet mine as you draw the bow over the strings.   
  
"I'm sorry," you say without stopping the music. "I should have told you before you touched me. I'm sorry for not giving you a choice and making you dirty."  
  
"Are you all right?" I finally settle on saying, because I still haven't wrapped my head around the truth that I suspected. How could I wrap my head around the fact that you feel like you contaminated me?  
  
You shrug and the note you are playing gets affected. "I'm over it. The incidences occurred a long time ago."  
  
I look at him sharply, willing him to make eye contact with me again. "Sherlock," I say when you refuse. "Can we talk about this?"  
  
"Why?"  
  
And at that moment, even I don't know why I.  
  
You put the violin down and gesture for me to take a seat. You lean on the table behind you and cross your legs. "I understand you have a curious mind," you say. "I was six when my babysitter took off my clothes and touched me. She tried to insert her finger into my anus."   
  
My breath catches in my throat and I know I have the wide-eyed look. I thought you were going to tell me it was your calculus teacher at fourteen years old. "It didn't fit," you continue in a flat voice. "So she licked me until I was wet. First she used her tongue to push through and then she pushed her forefinger into me. Then she sucked my penis. I still couldn't experience an orgasm. And if you're interested, no, I didn't cry. And I never asked her to stop."  
  
You may not have cried, but I am suddenly overwhelmed by a desire to cry.  
  
"Mycroft was the one who found the blood on my underwear. He was just 14. He's the one who cried. Perhaps he had just learned what rape is, but from that day on, he took over as my babysitter as much as he could." A sickened grin appeared on your face and then you add, "I used to have nightmares of Mycroft sticking his penis into my anus."  
  
You must have seen the look of horror on my face because you add hastily, "he never did, John."

 

* * *

 

6.  
  
I think I may have started crying, but I'm not sure. We sit in near silence until you snap in frustration, "Say something! Anything! Do you want to break up with me?"  
  
"No!" I shout and jump to my feet. "I just thought… I thought you… six is too young. I thought you were going to say it was your calculus-"  
  
"Ah," you cut me off, "yes, when I was fourteen, my calculus teacher insisted on giving me private lessons. He started touching me through my trousers while I did the questions. I never asked him to stop, because it felt good." Suddenly, a look of pure anger passed over your face and you hiss, "I hated Mycroft for not saving me a second time. And even though I never tried to stop it, I never told him no, I didn't resist when he fucked me, the person I am now is not because of what happened! I'm not like this because I was too weak to save myself! I am not like this because I was sexually abused!"  
  
I'm crying now, actually crying. Tears and hitched breaths, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Sherlock, I'm so sorry," I repeat because there's nothing else I can think of to say. I've treated a few rape victims over the course of my medical profession. I've watched the struggle, and I've seen it first hand when a victim has to continue fighting alongside their rapist on the front lines of war.  
  
"I understand if you no longer wish to be with me." You say duly, with a blank look on your face.  


 

* * *

  
  
We are both lying side by side on top of the blankets. You seem withdrawn, like you don't trust me. I've tried reaching for your hand a few times already and you refuse to let me slide mine into yours. So instead, I place it over your clenched fist. "You're not dirty," I say softly.  
  
"I'm not dirty," you repeat.  
  
"You have to trust me, I'm not leaving you. There is absolutely no way I think there's something wrong with you because of  _that_. You have to believe me. I love you. I'm not leaving you because of something in your past. You're not dirty. There's nothing wrong with you."  
  
You don't answer but you turn onto your side to face me.   
  
"I'm not dirty. There's nothing wrong with me." A pang of grief hits me in the gut when I see the expression on your face. You do not believe a word.   
  
"Promise me, Sherlock," I say and when you make eye contact, I smile. "No means no, stop means stop. Okay?"  
  
You nod.  
  
"Promise me," I urge. "You will tell me if you don't like something." This is important to me because of your past. You admitted you never asked your abusers to stop. Up until now, Moriarty manipulating me was my greatest fear. But now, I fear hurting you, I fear pushing you too far past your limits because you just simply refuse to speak up.  
  
"Yeah, yeah okay, I will." You promise in a tone that sounds absolutely nothing like the Sherlock I'm used to. "I promise."  
  
I pull you into my arms and hold you close. If you cry now, I won't say a word.  
  
And at that moment, I realise it's not you who has to learn to trust. It's me. I have to trust that you will keep your promise.


End file.
